WWE: High School Facism
by Minty Fresh Death
Summary: You like high school adventures? Here's a cynic's take. Featuring various WWE superstars, violence and abuse. It's been a LONG time but Chapter 4 is finally up! Please R+R!
1. Enter The Cynic

WWE: HIGH SCHOOL FACISM  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own World Wrestling Entertainment Inc or any of the wrestlers that appear in this story.  
  
Authors Notes: Hello, Fanfiction readers! I hate long intro's, so I'll skip straight to the meat. This is my first real fanfic project, and it's based on the fictious adventures, tortures and experiences of various WWE superstars who all attend the same high school. Although I am experimenting with a number of different themes here, this will NOT be one of those lovey-dovey school fics you may have read from other fanfic writers. (As a result, this may be borderlining PG-13 territory.)   
In the later chapters in particular, this will be a pretty dark and nasty environment, complete with violence, cynical views, abuse and other disturbing issues. Love may play a part in this engoing story, but happy endings are definately not guarenteed. This isn't gonna be a pretty ride.  
  
Also, as I have little knowledge of the American school system, what I am using here is basically a hash of what I learnt from my secondary school here in England and a bit of my own imagination with reference to dormitories, roomies etc.  
  
Big thanks to Benjamin Kyte and our mates from the punk rock band KGN for supplying both the title for this fanfic (it's a song they wrote) and the lyrics for the song, which I borrowed / modified for usage in Jericho's speech at the end.  
  
These author's notes will appear on every chapter I write on Fanfiction.net, and each one will contain some information you will need to know but isn't written said in the actual chapter itself (for example, if I were to say that two characters who aren't related by blood are brothers in my fic, and it isn't explained in the chapter, I would say in in the author's notes).   
For this chapter, you can presume that if ages are not mentioned, that all characters are in their twelfth year at school, which means they are all twelfth graders (or whatever you call them in America, we call them the Lower Sixth-formers), and as it's the beginning of term, they are all 16 (with their 17th's to come in the year).  
  
Enough with the banter, let's begin our story...  
  
- - - - -  
  
TIMELINE: September, the 1st day of the Autumn Term. 8.40 AM, 20 minutes before school officially begins.  
  
The long shadows clawed desperately away from the overshadowing, neglected buildings that made up the high school referred to by its students as "Wrestle 'Cademy". Fuelled by the relentless glare of the early morning sunlight, the shadows only served to make the forboding structures look that much larger and intimidating. But to him though, all it did was make him angry.  
  
He stepped through the back gates of the school and into what could be described as the "playground". In reality, it was a large patch of concrete with lines drawn on it, presumably to act as the boundaries for those who still enjoyed playing games which involved tennis balls. What made it even more bland and lifeless was the fact that several of the afformentioned buildings were strategically placed around the area so that the windows would shatter if a ball was so much as kicked above head height. Looking around and driving a hand through his blond, flaxen hair, he saw one of the pupils from the younger years had already committed such a sin. He smirked to himself, the thought of the youngster being handed a detention slip slightly quelling his bad temperment.  
  
He turned away, observing the scenes around him. Whatever life this school appeared to lack, the pupils themselves tried to make up for it. He saw several groups of younger kids playing soccer, touch football and baseball (albeit with tennis balls) while some others sat on the steps leading into the buildings, exchanging notebooks, food or kisses. Yet more pupils chatted amongst each other, in the shadowed areas next to buidings, or shared cigarettes with some sort of affection attached. Indeed, for those who were thinking, it wasn't always between opposite members of the sexes that all of the afformentioned occured. Resting against a railing worn down from the years of being leant on, he watched them all with disgust.  
  
"I can't deal with this shit," Chris Jericho grumbled to himself. "I'm forced to move to the snot-nose district of Grenwich, transfered to a school which has 'dictatorship' written all over it's system and I haven't seen anyone my age yet. This sucks." While all of what Chris said may have been subjected to his cynical nature and view on life, it was for the main part true.   
  
Canadian by origin, Chris had never really appreciated the qualities of his home country until now. While he liked the fresh air, outdoors and easy-going life, he took most of it for granted. Throughout his life he thought he was always being used or abused, which would explain his irrational hatred of girls, or having the piss taken out of him behind his back, which earned him few close friends. Chris was one of those people who could just act "cool" and gain respect for it, but no-one would get close to him, knowing that behind the cocky bravado was an insecure, paranoid and rather savage being.  
But to Chris himself, it was all jealousy. Yes, they didn't get close to him because he was superior to them. Strong, agile and fast, he had dominated over his competition from earlier schools. Anyone who had a problem with him would have their legs swept out from under them in seconds, and before they realised what happened, they'd be screaming. Screaming from the pain being forced onto the small of their backs, screaming as their legs were pulled from their sockets, screaming as they begged to be released from the most devestating submission hold in history, the Lion Ta-  
  
"Hey, you! What the heck are you doing over there?"  
  
Chris promptly woke out of his daydream as he looked around to see where the shout originated from. Who would dare shout so loud in his presence? Would they even dare to shout at HIM? He watched as he realised that he indeed was the recipent of the shout, and observed another boy, about his height and age of 16, walk up to him. Chris looked over the newcomer and immediately began to snicker to himself.  
  
"Don't you know we're not supposed to lean on this railing anymore?" the boy stated, rather than asking. Chris said nothing, only raising his snicker into a soft laugh as he observed the speaker in his full gracefulness, or lack of. He was wearing a yellow satchel over his red, white and blue rendition of a scene of fireworks that covered his entire T-shirt. The satchel seemed to shout out the words "PLAYGROUND MONITOR" through the icky blackness of the lettering. But what really made him stand out was not his glaring satchel, the ridiculously patrioticly coloured shorts he was wearing, nor even the goofy expression on his face that was supposed to resemble a tough guy look.  
What made him stand out was the way he styled his hair. It had been combed with a such a perfection that it looked like the spitting image of a toupee. Combined with the ear-muff type devices, he had a defining artifical look about the hair on his head that only made Chris increase his soft laughter in volume. The guy was a clear example of a 'dorkius-maximus'.  
  
"Hey buster, I don't know what you're laughing at, but you'd better quit it right now cause you're in big trouble!" Kurt Angle yelled. What was wrong with this guy? Didn't he know that old railing could collapse and cause him to seriously injure himself? And why was he laughing? The job of being a Playground Monitor was one that was treated with respect, by both the coaches and pupils alike. That meant that there's only one thing he could possibly be laughing at...  
  
"It's my medals, aren't they? Are you laughing at my medals?"  
  
The complete inaccuracy of the response provoked Jericho into a burst of hysterics, which naturally fuelled Kurt's anger. "How DARE you laugh at my medals! I got these from my dad just after I survived my 20 hour birth!" The railing suddenly lurched with another violent stroke of laughter from Chris, causing him to fall on his ass. Kurt blinked, about to verify his earlier premenition with "I told you so!" but he soon found his words being drowned out by the continualy mocking, hysterical laughter emulating from Chris Jericho's mouth. It was then that Kurt realised that a crowd was beginning to develop around the two of them, and it was his responsibility as Playground Monitor to ensure that pupils did not find themselves attracted to the wrong source of attention. After all, even if this was a heavily wrestling oriented school, they had their educations to worry about.  
  
"Ok people, move along! Nothing to see here!" Kurt began in his usual tone, but in an unusual turn, it appeared like the crowd was actually paying attention not to him, but the hysterical idiot who was on the floor just behind him. Why were they looking at such a subversive? Didn't they realise that it would damage their fountain of knowledge to pay attention to such ignoramuses?  
  
"Hey, who's the new guy?"  
"I dunno, what's he laughing at?"  
"People-" Kurt tried again, but the crowd continued to speak. This wasn't good.  
"Dude, you suppose he's laughing at Kurt?"  
"Now I can assure you all that-"  
"What?"  
"I said-"  
"WHAT?"  
"Now don't start-"  
"WHAT?" "WHAT?" "WHAT?" Not this again, Kurt groaned to himself. Of all things, not this!   
"All of you, cut it out right now!"  
"Dude, you can totally chalk up another one for the hair!"  
"Well it ain't no damn suprise is it, that sum-bitch's got more grease on that crap then-"  
"I said CUT IT!"  
"What? You take that piece of shit off and there ain't nuttin to cut, chrome dome! What?"  
"CUT IT OUT!"  
"WHAT?!" Now the whole crowd was chanting it! Kurt couldn't believe this. First some guy laughed at his medals and now Steve Austin was causing trouble again. Why was he such a rebel to authority? Couldn't he understand it's benefits and rewards? And why did he have to encourage such normally great people to go along with him, like Christian and-  
  
"Edge-ster, your prank worked great!"  
  
The silent alarms suddenly exploded in Edge's head, who until then, had been silently enjoying Kurt's oblivion until that point. But now, he was busted. Great job, Christian. It wasn't Kurt he was afraid of, but rather the corporate body of coaches who appointed him as Playground Monitor. Even though he'd shaved Kurt's head in the summer, there was no doubt the dork would snitch to them, and they'd find a way to make him pay. Those coaches who banded together seemed to clearly identify with rules of Fa-  
  
The thought was instantly banished from his mind as he saw Kurt push through the crowd to face him. The blind rage on Kurt's face was enough to tell Edge what he was planning, and he dove to the side, easily avoiding Angle's attempt to tackle him to the ground. Edge then took off running, a wide grin on his face as he ran off around the playground, Kurt's swearless insults echoing around as the Playground Monitor desperately tried to grab at him. Edge knew that he would later be pulverised in more than one way by the school system, but for now he could enjoy his fun. It would be a long while before he got any more.  
  
The crowd around Jericho soon turned their attention away from him to watch the chase scene between both Edge and Angle, leaving himself to get over his fit of laughing. Soon enough, he had pulled himself to his feet and was thinking about announcing his glorious presence to the crowd, who all appeared to be of his age, when suddenly they all appeared to look at him and disperse, running off in every single direction. Chris was just beginning to wonder what had caused this before a thick, booming voice sounded off just behind him.  
  
"You new around here, boy?"  
  
Chris turned around, finger pointed in the air ready to shout a torrent of abuse at whoever the hell called him that insulting, degrading word. He turned around to look at a facefull of chest hair, and soon realised that the speaker was a good foot taller than he was. Jericho looked up, staring into the face of a well built man in his middle 30s. His face almost sneered with a dark evil that could barely manifest itself, and his short haircut seemed definately inappropriate in comparison. Chris now found that he was staring in awe at the man, who on closer inspection, had a bandana around his head and the name "Sara" tattooed on his neck.  
  
The speaker smirked. He could tell he had the boy's attention, and now it was time for an impact. In an instant, he wrapped his right hand round Chris' throat, pinning him against the wall while at the same time suspending him two inches above the ground. "I'll take that as a yes, so you'd better listen up good. Round here, we demand that respect be laid down to all those in authority. What that means is you don't go pointin' fingers at the coaches round this school, nor do you make our monitors the laughing stock o' the crowd. Get that through your vampy little head and maybe you'll survive today with only a few bruises on that pretty little face. Catch my drift, boy?"  
  
Chris could only make a choked squeal as he found the world around him fading away.  
  
"Good." The big man let go of the hold, letting Jericho drop unceremoniously to the ground. He collapsed on his ass for the second time that day, only watching as the 'Coach' walked away from him. As soon as he was out of earshot, Chris realised just how small and alone he really was in this new world. He might have been well-liked in Winnipeg, but absolutely no-one gave a crap about that here. Here in Grenwich, it was evidently a whole different kettle of fish. From what that 'Coach', had told him while at the same time almost killing him, Chris might have guessed that it wasn't shining personality that wins the game - it's being the big dog. But instead, Chris began murmuring to himself for the second time that morning. Watching him, you may have thought he was mad, but Chris only trusted a select few when he had to be totally honest, and one of those few was himself.  
  
"Jesus Christ, I thought I was just in for a dictatorship, but THIS?! I laugh at a toupee and almost get myself killed for it! This is getting way over my head...is this a school where conforming is in vogue, and being me isn't allowed? Where the free mind is trampled and we're taught to hate? It's almost like having the brain selected over the thought, a pointless bureaucracy. Thi....This is just nothing but....but....High School..."  
  
"Facism." Another voice ended Chris' sentence for him. The voice was rasp and low, fairly unredeeming in terms of quality, but it had something in it that brought a genunine smile to Chris' face for the first time that day. If you couldn't see it, it was clearly audible in what he said next.  
  
"You...son of a...bitch!"  
  
  
END OF CHAPTER 1  
  
  
Well, lemme tell ya, that was a real pain to write up. Reviews are appreciated, but please don't spam my mailbox.  
  
BTW, in case you didn't know, "vamp" is being used here in the slang term that stands for a bisexual.  
  
That's it for now! Stay tuned for the next chapter "Being Da Be-yatch"... 


	2. Being Tha Be-yatch

WWE: HIGH SCHOOL FACISM  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own World Wrestling Entertainment Inc or any of the wrestlers that appear in this story.  
  
Authors Notes: Hello once again! For those who've provided feedback to my last story, thanks. Now, for a good part of this chapter, it steps quite a way away from the events described in "Enter the Cynic". My intention is to take a brief step out of the environment described in that chapter to focus on something different, although it does in the end refer back to the original topic. I will probably write quite a few chapters in this manner, so the focus doesn't fall entirely on the shoulders of one specific person.  
Another thing I didn't mention in my last chapter is that all the teachers here are referred to as 'Coaches'. I did this because, in this system, very little is taught that doesn't relate to wrestling in some way, hence the generic term 'teacher' might sound deceiving. I hope that 'Coach' helps shed light on that fact.  
  
Anyway, on with the story!  
  
- - - - -   
  
In the world of a dictatorship, roles are assigned, or so says the immortal unwritten code. There are those who weild power, and those who surrender to it. In the world of Wrestle 'Cademy, power stemmed not only from the Coaches, but from the students both respected and envied by their peers. In the case of the girls locker room - a universal term in regards to the twelfth grade females of the year who hung about the toiletries of the school - the role of power stemmed from the one known as "Tha Be-yatch". Tha Be-yatch was always magnetically good looking, universally poisonous, and with a wit as sharp as a knitting needle, which would stab right into your eye at a moment's notice.  
  
Even though Tha Be-yatch would without question be hated by her peers, and wished bad hair days forever, with the prestigious title came a sincere marvelling from all that surrounded her, a marvelling at her delicious audacity and deceptively merry way with her character assassinations. Being Tha Be-yatch shouldn't have qualified as being a bad person. Yes, with the title came the task of gossiping obsessively about other people, talking about them, sneering at them, tearing them apart, but it was all done in it's own community spirited way.   
Tha Be-yatch was a person meant to be insatiably interested in those around them, even if it was in the same way a tiger is insatiably interested in antelopes. After all, to kill your prey, you'd have to hunt it, get to know it's habits, something which a true misanthropist would never bother to do. Which meant that, deep down inside, Tha Be-yatch was really a gifted anthropist and a true person-person.  
  
Twisted logic be it may, it was the logic that Stacy Kiebler went by, having inherited the role of "Tha Be-yatch" that year, and, up until now, she'd settled into her role suprisingly well. For the first two periods of the day, she'd already began to weave her web of destruction, and to her, she'd picked the perfect fly to fall into the net. Unfortunately, it appeared that fly had forgot to read the rule book, and actually thought, of all ridiculous things, that Stacy actually meant to push the big red button that said "Search and Destroy" when she scribbled on the boys toilets "Molly's fine, just get in line".  
  
- - - - -  
  
10.34 AM - Morning Break. 16 minutes until Lesson 3.  
  
"Molly! You're overreacting! She didn't mean anything bad by-" Trish Stratus began, but soon found herself being shoved into the wall, barely avoiding an impalement on the coat hangers. Already, the fight that had began in the toilets was escalating into what could only be described as a 'slobberknocker'. What was especially bad about that was that 'slobberknocker' was a term used only for the worst types of No Holds Barred fights in the school. Trish knew there was only one thing she could do.   
  
As her friend leapt onto Stacy, screaming something unintelligable and rather unrepeatable, while pummelling away at her all the while, Trish pushed herself through the forming crowd, desperate to find the people who could settle this dispute. She knew it was obeying the system. She knew that it was in the unwritten code not to do so. She knew it would have serious reprocussions. She knew that if Molly found out that she squealed to the coaches, it may end their friendship for the rest of their days. But she had to do it. She knew what Molly was capable of, and she had to stop her doing something she may have regretted. That's what friends were for, after all.  
  
"Get up! Get up, you filthy whore!" Molly's voice had died down from the high pitched screech she was at when the fight first began, but the anger on her voice had far from subsided. Stepping back to observe her handiwork, she denied herself the pleasure, opting instead for twice the amount as she cracked her boot right into Stacy's ribs. The satisfying sensation when the leather collided with the bone underneath the flesh, added to the pain-filled groan which came from Stacy was enough to tell Molly that something had snapped inside. She wasn't finished though, far from it.   
Lifting Stacy up by the hair, she slammed her head into the back of one of the lockers, emmiting a loud metallic thud from the stainless steel contraptions. Molly's knee dug into Stacy's abdomen, almost ordering her to bend over, but the sharp pull Molly held on Stacy's blond locks prevented her from doing so. In compensation, she screamed for all she was worth, but only a whimper came out of her mouth.  
  
Molly looked into Stacy's tear-filled eyes, immediately dismissing it as another lie she cooked up. The only thing real about the whole ordeal was the bruises that had been punched onto her face, not to mention on the other parts of her body. Molly observed the once proud, cocky, mocking and self-indulgent face of Tha Be-yatch, now reduced to a snivelling, weeping and panicked expression, almost like that of a little girl, oblivious to the mistakes of the past until she found out about their reprocussions.   
  
With a sardonic grin, Molly pratically split her knuckle to the bone as it crashed into Stacy's nose. As her blood flew across the hallway, finding it's mark on both the lockers and the floor, all of the punishments of the system had left Molly's mind. She didn't care about anything. Her reputation was ruined. No one would ever talk to her again, so she might as well destroy the one who would talk about her the most.  
  
Stacy was drifting. Her legs were drifting. Her chest was heaving. Her mind was in a haze. This wasn't happening. It was a bad dream, she kept telling herself. In a few minutes, her mommy would wake her up, and she'd slip right back into her daily routine, and by the time she got to school, she'd be ready to assume her role as "Tha Be-yatch". She'd have the privalege of being the number 1 gossip about Wrestle 'Cademy, the number 1 rebel girl of the system, the sole leader of the girls locker room against the dictatorship that tried to crush their thoughts.   
  
Her gaze floated from the blood stained floor to that of Molly, the girl who had attacked her just moments ago, over some stupid message she'd written to establish her anarchic authority. She could only watch as Molly tore towards her, readying her arm for something...something to cause more pain. Pain...was this what being Tha Be-yatch really about? No, this was a dream. Only a-  
  
The watching crowd cringed as Stacy thudded on the floor, more blood splurting from her once-pretty face. Molly's clothesline was fierce, but Stacy fell on her side, which though it prevented her cracking her head open against the stone floor of the school, it only furthur aggrevated the pain on her ribs. Molly though, was in trouble of her own. In her blind rush to knock the hell out of Stacy, she forgot that only a few feet behind where Stacy was were the steps that led up to the girls toilets. Molly found that she couldn't stop her momentum, and a split second later she was stepping into midair.  
Desperately, she angled her foot to try and anticipate the next step, but only ended up twisting it in a direction that it shouldn't have gone in. Molly's pain was cancelled out by her fear as she realised she was going to fall headfirst down the flight of steps. She tried to get her arms in front, but only found her hands in front of her face. Thud, snap, thud. The sounds echoed throughout her head as the pain enveloped her, slowing time to a crawl...  
  
"We all hate the system, but it's what we work by. The coaches are the authority, they assign the monitors, like Kurt Angle, to do the dirty work they can't solve with their fists. It's a pretty tough system yea, but what can you do?" As the situation was relayed back to Jericho from his friend, he was strangely lost for words. In the past two lessons, Jericho had been reprimanded twice for staring out of the window and not answering a question quickly enough, respectively. This was fine enough, but the punishment had been a punch to the face and a kick to the kidneys. The Coach in charge had then thrown him - quite literally - out of the classroom until he had learned to "adjust to the system". Jericho had spent the first 10 minutes of break whining about the unfairness of the system to his long time friend, Chris Benoit.  
  
Long time was certainly a bit of an understatement. For just about all of their lives, the two Chrises had known each other and had been near inseparable, thanks in large to their undeniable bond of wrestling. Even through the boom and busts of the actual buisness itself, Jericho and Benoit watched and performed the art which a passion and fetish that few could match. Indeed, a lot of the time they had wrestled each other, although both would differ on their stories about who the better one was. What Jericho liked about Benoit was his undeniable honesty and toughness at the same time. Benoit was strong enough to take mental abuse, but if he had a real problem with you, he'd take you aside and say it in such a way you couldn't help but feel guilty about it, rather than just lighting the cannons for the battle royal.   
  
Benoit had departed just over a year ago from Canada, hoping to learn more about wrestling in the "land of opportunity", and had ended up in Wrestle 'Cademy after someone had scooped up his resume and liked what they saw. How they got it remained a mystery to Chris himself, but he'd handled himself well enough in the school, as he was explaining to his friend right now.   
"Yea, I know what goes around here, but I don't openly defy it. Few people can. Steve Austin - you probably saw him earlier - gets away with taking the piss outta the monitors because he's a favourite of Coach Calloway."  
"Calloway?"  
"Yea, big guy. Near seven foot tall, never wears shirts, always a vest, along with a bandana-"  
"Hey!" Jericho suddenly spurted out, "He's the jackass who tried to kill me earlier!"  
"Yea, pretty much. He'd have to blame someone for starting something with Angle. Guess he took one look at you and decided to make you his whipping-boy." Benoit snickered, playfully nudging Jericho in the ribs. He didn't reply, so Benoit came to the conclusion that he wanted to hear him talk more.  
"But not even Austin has the guts to publicly stand up to the Coaches. Even if he did, there's too many in number and he'd just be taken down. The thing is, here at Wrestle 'Cademy, they won't expell you, they'll just publicly and privately kick the crap outta ya in every way possible, just like they did to Ed..."  
  
Benoit's voice faded out on him as he realised that Jericho hadn't acutally been paying attention to him at all. What he had been focused on was the crowd that had gathered around the steps leading up to the girls toilets. Already, they could hear the goofy Playground Monitor, who for some reason had been called off his duties so he could work inside, yelling "Move along! Nothing to see here!" Even from where the two Chrises stood, they could make out that Kurt Angle sounded pretty spooked from what WAS there to see. They walked up to the crowd, getting there in time to see two stretchers speeding down the hallway. The masses shifted to follow them, in the confusion sending Jericho and Benoit, who were walking towards them, flying to the floor. By the time the two Chrises had recovered, Kurt was successfully blocking their pathway.  
  
"I thought I told you guys to move along!"  
"What happened here, Kirk Angel?" Jericho sneered. His earlier clash with Coach Calloway had obviously NOT taught him to have any respect for the monitor.  
"That's Kurt Angle, you dummy! And nothing happened here!"  
"Except it looks like somebody took a pretty nasty spill on these steps," Benoit observed rather monotonously.  
"Hey! There's absolutely no proof that a fight occured in the girls toilets, now move along!"  
"He didn't say anything about that, assclown!" Jericho sneered again, in triumph. "What?" He then chorused, as Kurt began to speak.  
"Hey, you cut it now, you jerk, or I'll get the Boss on you, and you don't wanna mess with him!"  
Benoit tuned out the rest of the argument between the two, as something else caught his ear. It was almost like...sobbing...  
  
At the foot of the staircase, Trish looked around her, at the blood of her friend Molly. She had arrived on the scene too late, and Molly's temperment couldn't hold itself any longer. She had arrived just in time to see Molly fall unconscious in front of her feet, gashed and bruised over her body from the fall down the stairway. Stacy was even worse off; a broken nose and a cracked rib were the worse of her troubles, not to mention her numerous bruises and blood loss. Trish's vision soon began to blur, as her head lowered into her lap and she began weeping out louder. This was what the system did. The compacting nature, the perfection of order, the elimination of ideas, that's what caused Stacy to write that message. She didn't hate Molly, she just delivering a plain and simple message to the system - "Kiss my ass".  
  
But it was Molly who got the message.   
  
The system didn't stop her hatred either, it encouraged it. Her older cousin, Coach Holly, had often told her not to "take any shit" from anybody, just to "punk them right out" if they ever "crossed her path". He provoked Molly to take a swing rather than to solve it rationally. As Trish's tears fell freely onto her skirt, she just wished for it all to end. For everything, Molly's corruption of thought, Stacy's rebellion, but all the things she could think of all pointed back to one problem - the system itself.   
  
Benoit turned to the steps as he saw Trish crying her heart out in front of him. His instinct told him right away to help her, although he didn't actually know who she was. He never really talked to the girls, in actual fact, he was rather scared of them, but he couldn't just leave her there to cry. It wasn't the right thing to do. But as he attempted to kneel down, something grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him up again. It was Jericho. Angle had presumably finished lecturing him about the ways of the system, and had set off in the direction of where the stretchers had gone.  
"Come on man, it's almost time for lessons again."  
"Bu-"  
"Don't worry, we've got some free periods. Let's go watch some of the cruiserweights in action. This way to the wrestling halls, right?"  
"Chris, can't you see-"  
"I said, let's GO!" Jericho snarled, with a definate hatred in his voice, yanking Benoit down the hallway. Benoit blinked in astonishment. He was sure he'd never heard his friend this angry before, but even though his mind was torn, his body was complient to Jericho's every word. But Benoit couldn't help but wonder at the girls astonishment on his face as she turned to look at them as they walked down the hallway. Why did she cover her mouth like that? He was sure he never seen her before...was Chris not telling him something? Or was he just being paranoid....  
  
  
END OF CHAPTER 2  
  
  
Whew, I told you guys there would be some violence in here, didn't I? Heh, ok, maybe it was a BIT too gratituous, but I needed the fight scene to help advance the plot (no, it wasn't there for the sole purpose of Trish seeing Jericho and Benoit). You'll see what I mean when I get onto the later chapters...anyway, reviews are always appreciated and stay tuned for the next chapter, featuring the first in ring action of the story! (Cheap pop from the wrestling fans) Heh... 


	3. The Thin Red Bloodline

WWE: HIGH SCHOOL FACISM  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own World Wrestling Entertainment Inc or any of the wrestlers that appear in this story.  
  
Authors Notes: Hello, once again! Sorry about the lack of updates...well I've been busy with life! In any case though, I am absolutely loving the reviews I'm getting from you guys. It's nice to know my work is appreciated. Anyway, for the basic lack of things I have to write in this here note section, let me just say right now that I am defying the laws of reality slightly in this chapter (shock gasp!)  
In reality, Eddie Guerrero is the uncle of Chavo Guerrero Jr, but in this story Eddie is his elder brother. I have a very good reason behind this, being that...well...it wouldn't be as good if it weren't such a close relationship. Ok, that sounds crap on screen, but really, it wouldn't.  
Oh, and any mis-spellings when the Undertaker (or Coach Calloway, if you will) is speaking are deliberate, so as to show off his slight Texan-esque accent. Any mis-spellings in Spanish are evidence of my total lack of knowledge about the language. :)  
  
Ok, on with the story!  
  
- - - - -  
  
10.51 AM - 2 minutes into Lesson 3. 48 more remaining.  
  
"This, mah boys, is called the squared circle," Coach Calloway addressed the class standing before him. His unnaturally broad smirk was rather offputting for those who were forced to look at him, and it was that which made Chris Jericho thank God that he had nothing to do with the cruiserweight classes and was safely watching the lecture from the very back seat of the stands. He continued to listen to Calloway drag on,   
"You little pussycats should be proud of yourselves for even making it to the cruiserweight year. To stand inside this circle is an honour, a privilage, a cherishment that is not handed down lightly. You think for one second that being in the ring is a right of yours," His tone now grinded into a vicious snarl that perfectly matched his now changed facial expression, "Then you can get just bend over right now and get your ass kicked outta here."   
  
The Coach then sneered, his eyes darting from pupil to pupil, looking for someone to stare back at him, to test his authority, to try and disrespect him. The class all bowed their heads, avoiding eye contact at all costs, and as a result his knuckles went without their regular morning workout. Stupid freakin' dick-suckers, Calloway thought to himself. "Alright then boys, time to see if you can actually try and fly. Kidman, Tajiri, you two are up first. 10 minute time limit, pinfalls, submissions, count outs and all that shit. Go with what works and remember - you mess up and I'll mess you up. Everyone else, CLEAR OUTTA MY YARD!"  
Within a few seconds, the entire ring was clear, save the two participating and Coach Calloway, who took on the form of the referee of the match. The class obediently sat down on the front row of the stands, observing both Kidman and Tajiri circle each other with a fierce transfixtion, as if their minds were writing down invisible detailed notes in the backs of their heads.  
  
The cruiserweights, as they were labelled, could be described by an almost proverb-esque expression - "Light of body and of mind." A good 3 years younger than the seniors that Jericho and Benoit could have called themselves, they were the perfect example of the right-wing brainwash that the system aimed for in all of their students. Almost all of the 10 or so who made up the group were model pupils, oblivious to anything but their studies, accepting the cruel punishments exhibited by the coaches was just a way of being motivated into working harder, to achieve their goal, their dream, their desire of making it in the world of wrestling, of defying the odds to become a star, to prove all who say it's chasing the impossible wrong. That was what the cruiserweights dreamed of, and the system took that dream and injected a dosage of their corruption into it, to which they were none the wiser.  
  
Nor did that injection stop them from flying, as Billy Kidman leapt to the third rope and propelled off it, back the way he came, into a spinning heel kick, aiming for his opponent's neck. Tajiri was a vicious competitor, and Kidman knew his aerial offensive was the only way he could avoid the effect's of Tajiri's fancy footwork. But with reflexes that only a feline could match, Tajiri caught the incoming foot and in one smooth motion twisted it 90 degrees to his left, letting go and watching with delight as he saw Kidman fly across the ring, the momentum from his heel kick only being added to that which Tajiri threw him with. Kidman, completely disorientated, found himself collapsing in a heap in the ropes. He couldn't tell where he was, who he was, nor what wa-  
  
CRACK!!  
  
The echo throughout the arena even managed to stun Coach Calloway, if only for a second. He never expected that a little Japanese kid could dropkick someone that viciously, especially not so directly to the face. As Kidman sprawled outside of the ring, bloodied and out cold from the impact, Calloway watched as the little freak looked over to him, presumably wanting some sort of approval for his actions. Admitively, the coach had been impressed with what he'd done, and seeing Kidman was laid out, he obliged with a semi-grin, to which the freak jumped up and down with in glee. Sheesh, give 'em a inch and they'll take a frickin' mile, Calloway thought again to himself as he started the obligatory 10 count, skipping a few numbers along the way. This was an indication to the class that he intented to give a speech on how breaking someone's nose was a perfect example of taking the initiative in the squared circle. And sure enough, he did.  
  
"Well class, I hope your eyes were open during that, cause you just saw a perfect example of initiative right there. If ya cain't pin em, knock em out cold. And what other perfect way to do that then..."  
  
The rest of Coach Calloway's speech fell on deaf ears. Well, for Chavo Guerrero Jr, that was certainly the case. He had enough problems of his own to deal with, the first of which was attempting a good display in his bout - when Kidman woke up, he was gonna wish he'd kept asleep. Chavo's second problem was seated in the middle row of the stands, watching him with an almost hate-filled expression in his eyes, that showed few traces of any means of love behind them. If they were the eyes of a coach, it wouldn't have mattered. They were all like that. But what made Chavo cringe was the fact those eyes belonged to his very own brother, Eddie Guerrero.  
From the stands, Eddie watched his younger brother, almost disgusted at what he was doing. Why the hell was he looking at him? Why wasn't he paying attention? If he kept it up, he'd get crushed into pieces like that stupid wooden horse he dragged around when he was younger. Eddie continued his stare, feeling slightly relieved when Chavo finally released his gaze and turned back to Calloway, who was now droning about how to put more impact behind the moves that they'd use in their matches. Why did his brother always seem to drift off into his own dream world? Why was it always Eddie's job to bring him back to reality? Why couldn't Chavo just stand on his own two feet? Eddie hated having to look after his younger brother, especially so because Chavo never listened to him, always shudders if he approached and never wanted to have anything to do with him. Besides, Eddie had enough problems of his own...but...  
  
The bell rang, signifying the beginning of the match between Chavo and another cruiserweight, Shane "Hurricane" Helms, and also signifying the end of Eddie's thought train. Now his focus was upon everything his little brother did. This was the Guerrero legacy, and it was now time for Chavo to make his mark. And it better be a damn good one, Eddie shouted in his mind.  
  
"Cruiserweights..." Jericho was once again talking to himself, "You put them at the start of the show and they'll end up stealing the damn thing. No room in this world for straight up wrestlers any more - ya gotta come with the lucha libre crap on your resume as well. Pah! And what's Coach Callo-gay teachin a bunch of tequilla swillin - OOF!" Chris suddenly felt the air leave his system as the other Chris elbowed him in the ribs. Jericho was left wheezing in his own private world once again, as Benoit continued to focus on the action occuring in the squared circle, tension sudsiding from him as he saw Eddie Guerrero turn back to face the ring as well. The last thing that he needed to be in was the middle of a fight between a loudmouthed Canadian and a short-tempered Mexican. But another one of Jericho's murmured comments soon brought back a burst of anxiety from him that kept his mind from becoming completely calm.  
  
"Jeez...sometimes...just like...bitch Stratus..."  
  
In the ring, Chavo easily out-maneuveured another one of Hurricane's over-agressive clotheslines, sliding underneath his legs and sweeping them from under him. Chavo followed with an elbow drop but Helms quickly rolled to the side before it connected. Both cruisers were on their feet in a flash, and Chavo swung his left in a roundhouse a flash later, only for it to be caught by Helms. Before Chavo could raise his other foot for the enziguri counter, Hurricane spun him round for a backdrop. Chavo flipped through the move and with cat-like reflexes landed on his feet. Helms turned round just in time to see Chavo's legs lock round his neck before his world was flipped around in circles. Chavo quickly made the cover, but Hurricane still had the presence of mind to lift his shoulder before the three.  
  
"Damn!" Eddie cursed silenty from the stands, but the next words his tongue formed echoed through the arena. "Chavo! Uso los joder cuerdas!"  
  
The Latin linguo sent no message to Helms or Calloway, yet it struck a deep chord in Chavo. His brother always liked doing it, he said it never hurt anybody to cheat to win, said that was what made every Guerrero proud. But why didn't it seem right. An image suddenly struck through Chavo like lightning. Choking...when he hadn't done it before...younger...after the match...choking...used the very objects...Eddie...choking...WHAM!!  
  
Chavo snapped back to reality as his head thudded of the canvas, to the laughter of someone loud in the stands. His view tilted to the side, into the shocked faces of the cruiserweights outside of the ring. He was lifted up again.. into more choking, but....it was Helms? Chavo's eyes almost burst out of their heads when he realised what happened and a new fire exploded inside of him as he flailed wildly, trying something, anything to get at the prick who just trampled on the Guerrero legacy, but it was all for naught as he suddenly felt his back and neck bend over, before Hurricane suddenly flipped round and drove his elbow right into Chavo's throat, dropping him flat out on the canvas. Helms, having successfully hit the "Eye of the Hurricane", dropped for the cover, and the obligatory three count never even clicked in Chavo's head.  
  
Coach Calloway was, to say the least, rather shocked. For possibly the first time ever, a cruiserweight had successfully managed to chokeslam his opponent. Needless to say, he felt rather angered that there was so much disorder in his lesson. That blonded haired bisexual in the stands had the nerve to laugh in HIS lesson, and that freakish Guererro was screaming Spanish at the top of his voice, which in turn made the cruiserweights chatter with excitement at each other. This wasn't what the system had in mind. This wasn't a tolerable situation. Calloway, looking around for targets, grabbed Hurricane right by the throat and lifted him high into the air. The excitement from the cruiserweights turned into a collective gasp as Helms was brought crashing down with a sickening thud on the concrete floor outside of the ring. Calloway was ready to spit venom, as he exploded out of the ring with a vengeance. On his way up the stands, he sent Eddie Guerrero flying down them with one swipe of his fist. Chris Benoit looked towards the demonic visage tearing a swath up to him and his still-laughing collegue, and shut his eyes in anguish.  
  
The Undertaker had found his latest sacrifices.  
  
- - - - -  
  
3.35 PM - 5 minutes past the end of the school day. 6 hours and 25 minutes until curfew.  
  
"Ok, ok, ok! I admit it. I'm still a jackass, true! I still get into trouble, true! And you also take a lot of it as well, true!" Jericho was trying his hardest to keep himself from going into his normal yell, which would have only made Benoit that more angry. Chris squealed in his head as he dodged another fist trying to make a mark on his face. It wouldn't have helped to add another bruise on it. "But you have to admit that over half the crap that happened to us today was not my fault!" He pressed against a wall as the silent alarms exploded in his head. Benoit's fist was thrown out again, but Jericho dodged to the side as it hit the neglected marble rock, following with the standard yell of pain from the fist's owner. Jericho took the split second to make a run for it, only to suddenly find himself being tackled from behind and falling face first on the floor. He knew what was coming next and the only way he could counter was by using the one tool he had that caused that very pain.  
  
Benoit clamped down on his favourite submission move. He had yet to call it a name, but he was thinking something along the lines of "The Benoit Bender". But seeing as it was a crossface, a move which bent only the neck and not the back, it might not have made sense to some of the more uneducated who would think bending submissions have to attack the back. But, the alternative name - the "Chris Crossface" - sounded kinda stupid. But however painful the submission was, it would not stop his obnoxious friend from trying to talk his way out of the situation. And as Chris J. continued to struggle and scream in the crossface, Chris B. smiled to himself as he clinched a little bit harder on the hold. An idea had now formed in his head and he would be a fool not to find out that little bit extra about his friends other relationships...  
  
  
- - - - -  
  
10.01 PM - 1 minute past curfew. 59 minutes left until lights out.  
  
The door creaked slightly as Chavo crept in, trying his best to blend into the shadows. The lights were already out, which relieved Chavo to an extent. Hopefully that meant that his elder brother had decided to sleep as well. Maybe if he could just sneak past him, in the morning he wouldn't be so angry. As quiet as a mouse, Chavo crept across to his bed, which was nothing more than a sheet across the floor. Eddie had long since claimed the bunk for himself and his...stash. Chavo had almost made it to the corner when something caught his eye. Glimmering in the light of the moon, Chavo's eyes widened at the sight of the five-dollar note, but unfortunately for him his hand was louder than his feet. No sooner had he grabbed at the note when his elder brother sprung out of the darkness, wrapping a hand around his throat and pinning him to the wall.  
  
"Hey kiddo, what the hell do ya think yer playin' at, heh?" Eddie sneered laciviously, rolling his tongue across his lips.  
  
"W-w-w-well I was just g-g-getting ..." Chavo stammered.  
  
"So where have you been all day, heh kid? Cowering in your own self-pity?" The arrogant tone of Eddie's voice was certainly confusing to Chavo, but it didn't quell his fear.  
  
"N-n-no, I was just uh, I got lost... and I couldn't find my way b-"  
  
"Don't lie to me kid!" Eddie's lacivious tone began to boil into a more recognisable anger.  
  
"Please, Eddie, I--"  
  
"Call me Sir, you chico mierda!" He growled back, throwing Chavo roughly into a wall of the room. The little squeal was all but cancelled out by the loud bang of flesh against brick. "I shouda left you back in the gutter, esse! You ain't nothing but a disgrace to the Guerrero legacy!"  
  
Chavo suddenly felt a wave of anger flow though him, exterminating his pain. "Hey, who's the one smoking weed, Eddie?! Being in the gutter would be better than losing everything I loved over some God damn legacy!" He yelled.  
  
Eddie suddenly went pale. His eyes darkened, and a split second later he was at Chavo's side, trembling all the while, as if barely able to restrain himself. "Go to sleep, Chavo." He hissed coldly.  
  
Chavo knew if he said another word his brother would snap. He had hit his only soft spot. He could tell because Eddie was calling him by his name, usually it was just "kiddo" or "esse". Chavo shrunk back into his corner and shivered under his thin cover. Chavo's mind drifted, trying desperately to blank out his hunger and pain. Such thoughts...of better times, when   
he had three square meals a day, slept in a warm bed, and had two parents and a brother to love him...  
  
Eddie watched his younger brother speed back to his corner, most definately silenced for the rest of the night. He turned away, wiping a tear from his eye, towards the balcony. Grabbing a half-empty bottle of liquor from somewhere in his bunk, he walked out to balcony, breathing in the night sky air, taking a moment to witness what would have been a beautiful night on the beach with his...his...no. This wasn't the beach, Eddie told himself. This was Wrestle 'Cademy, the place where he had to re-build his legacy, the Guerrero legacy, and Chavo had to as well. He couldn't fail, not now. He'd already done that...done that too many....too many...  
  
Eddie screamed out a howl of pain, throwing the glass bottle straight to the ground, letting it shatter into a million pieces before his feet, as he slumped down into an uncontrollable passion of tears. "Lenina!" He cried to the night sky, "Lenina, please come back to me, I can't take this anymore! Oh please, just one glimpse, God, I'm begging you, don't divide me any longer from the woman I love!" Eddie tried desperately to hold his tears, only to find them flowing down his face faster. His cries continued, "I need her, please God, sweet Jesus la Mesias, I can't go on without my love! I can't live in this world without my soul!"  
  
"Shut up over there!" was the only response Eddie got back that night.  
  
  
END OF CHAPTER 3  
  
  
Phew, that was more disturbing than I expected it to be. And all in one day! Sometimes I write too detailed for my own good, heh. Anyway, more violence in Chapter 4 is pretty much guarenteed, and please gimme feedback to this and tell me if you liked the idea of changing the time period several times over the chapter, or if you just liked the whole thing in general! :) But in all seriousness, if you have criticisms to make, please be constructive about it (tell me what you think was bad and why) and please don't flame me over my probably very bad Spanish linguo.  
In any case, I'll see y'all when I'm done with Chapter 4. 


	4. A New Respect

WWE: HIGH SCHOOL FACISM  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own World Wrestling Entertainment Inc or any of the wrestlers that appear in this story.  
  
Authors Notes: Jeez, it's been a LONG time since I've updated this, so I'll keep these notes short and sweet. This next chapter is gonna be bit of a plot developer, so I've introduced some more characters, more concepts and a bit more of everything really. I really hate to include parts where there is little action going on, but I do promise you that the next two chapters after this one will have plenty more violence, and there is a nasty fight scene at the end of this one.   
  
Oh, and I must tell you now that I only use the real names of the characters if it's either (a) Their wrestling name or (b) Unavoidable. In one instance in this chapter, I had to in order not to look like an idiot. Ok, enjoy. (And before you quote me on that, Coach Calloway is the sole exception to that rule!)  
  
  
- - - - -  
  
TIMELINE: September, Day 5 of the Autumn Term. 10.20 AM, 8 minutes until the end of Period 2.  
  
"And I'm afraid that's the situation we're presented with, Mark."  
  
Coach Calloway shifted uncomfortably in the chair he was sitting on, absorbing the words silently. To the speaker, it would have appeared that he was accepting what was being said, but he knew Calloway had more chance of giving up his tobacco chewing habit then he would of accepting the situation at hand. His thoughts were all but confirmed as Calloway spat the filthwad at the wastepaper basket by the desk, missing it and making a dirty black mark on the side of the finely polished desk. The speaker quickly hid his thoughts of digust as Calloway rose from his chair, placing both his hands on the desk and bringing his face only centimetres from the speaker.  
  
"Dammit man, you should know by now that I don't DO that lovey-dovey crap!"  
  
"But the pupils respect you! Everyone does!"  
  
"I don't care! There are some things in life you do NOT ask from certain people, and you don't ask ME to do any kinda positive mental attitude bullshit!"  
  
The speaker sighed, averting his eyes from the glare of Calloway. He didn't accept defeat all too graciously, but there was no way he could win when the Coach was this agitated. He had to adopt a different strategy. And this he did, for as soon as Calloway sat back down, the speaker redirected his eyes towards that of Calloway, almost forcing him to stare right back at him. Now the speaker had his attention.  
  
"Ok Mark, let's go over this again. The pupils have lost one of their most vital links to their supposed rebellion in Steve Austin. With his disappearence, there is no more direct leader of the masses. In addition to that, Stacy Kiebler, one of the more disruptive girls, is no longer a problem, thanks mainly to my two little angels." The speaker leant back in his chair, a small yet almost sickly smile beginning to spread across his face. Calloway raised an eyebrow in inquisition, before rolling his eyes to the back of his head, seemingly unimpressed. The speaker continued;  
  
"What we would really need now is a new approach. It would work wonders in convincing the pupils that we all want the same thing. And Mark, you're the only Coach in the school that can command that authority-"  
  
"Listen up Boss," Calloway suddenly interrupted "Obviously you've got your head stuck somewhere between trying to act humble and trying to be discrete about who you drill at night, but I told you - I ain't no daddy figure. I'm didn't get my respect by spewing out lectures on how to get along wit' your brothas, I got my respect cause I act like the big dog of the yard. Now if Steve had a problem with that, to hell with him. But I got a way we can get what we want by keepin with what we got. Ya wanna hear me out this time?"  
  
Calloway leaned back, absorbing nothing but silence this time. The speaker appeared to almost open his mouth, but no words came out. The seconds ticked away in the room, as both men continued to stare at each other, neither backing down yet neither offering suggestions. The moment was broken with a loud knocking on the door, followed by it opening. The person who walked in appeared to both please Calloway and anger the speaker.  
  
"Y-y-y-you wanted to s-s-see me, M-m-m-mister-"  
  
"No, he didn't," Calloway suddenly stood up from his seat, before the speaker could utter anything, and walked over to the newcomer, putting his hand on his shoulder. "I did. Ya see boy, I got nothing but good things in mind for you, as long as Mr McMahon is willing to hear me out."  
  
- - - - -  
  
TIMELINE: 10.28 am. End of Period 2.  
  
"And those who haven't finished that work on suplexes will get themselves a first class ticket for an ass kicking..."  
  
With the sounding of the bell though, the words from the Coach in charge fell into the meaningless void known as forgetfullness. The threat had been heard before so many times before by almost all the students in the 12th grade it hardly meant anything anymore. Instead, word was abuzz about something new, something near-revolutionary in it's own right. This certain something was a particular something that hadn't been attempted since the days of a Canadian legend that the current year of revolutionaries could only dream of imitating, but with it had brought it's own addition that made the system that much more unpleasant.  
  
And sure enough, the walkout of Steve Austin was about to have some serious reprocussions.  
  
"Sheesh," was all that Chris Benoit had to say on the matter. "And with the way you treat girls, I thought you had mental problems." Chris Jericho, for whatever reason, didn't reply. With any other person, this might have been easily brushed away, but for a loudmouth like Jericho, it was obvious that something was up. Benoit knew that it couldn't have been the confession of yesterday that was bothering Chris - he'd given it up within a minute of being trapped in the Crossface, and it was a simple case of "Chris meets Trish, Trish likes Chris, Chris dumps Trish because she's a dirty, filthy, bottom feeding trashbag ho." Well ok, there was obviously more to it but that was enough for Chris B to know.  
  
Coming back to the matter at hand, Jericho was still his suprisingly silent self, head bowed down and looking at the floor. He never even responded to Benoits question, never even noticed the existence of those around him, never even reacted to the football that bounced off the corridor and smacked him right on the side of his face. True, it knocked him off balance and sent him sprawling to the floor, but he didn't holler out his usual abusive language at the perpetrator. He never even glanced at his direction when the insult blared from the handler of the ball.  
  
"Sorry short-ass, didn't see ya there!"  
  
Benoit however, did just that. Standing in front of the two of them were three of the top students of the twelfth year. Though the trio would have been considered a bit lacking in the cerebral environment, that wasn't what was needed to become the top of Wrestle 'Cademy. The unwritten code of the school specified that those who would be successful needed to pass the "MBT" test. Muscles, Balls and Testosterone, that is, and there was no doubt that Brock Lesnar, Terry "Rhyno" Gerin and Hunter Hearst Helmsley passed that test with flying colours.   
  
Benoit looked at the threesome with a look of pure disgust. Since Austin's walkout, these three had assumed authority in the student ranks, and being the pride and joy of many a Coach in the school, had threatened, beat-up and ripped into any and all threats to the Facism authority. And the Canadian Chrises were their next target. Jericho was still slumped against the wall, not even bothering to get up, so Benoit assumed for the worst as the three approached him.  
  
"Hey, Mr Roboto," Brock sniggered, "Ain't you heard the announcement yet?"  
  
"Why don't you suprise me?" Benoit replied, not knowing exactly how to insult Lesnar back. Speaking to people was never his strong point, so Chris never bothered saying anything more than he had to.  
  
"Martial Law's been declared round the school," Triple H answered, with his upper-class arrogance adding an even darker tone to his murderous voice. "Anybody not outside during breaktime or lunch gets a first class ticket to the Murderball frontlines. We're real happy you and the Coaches' bitch there would be the first victims for us."  
  
Benoit suddenly felt something freeze inside him. Murderball was just as it sounded. The only rule in the game was to get a football from your end of the pitch to the enemies. With no penalties, no fouls and no restrictions on what could happen, it got real ugly, real quick. Triple H, Rhyno and Lesnar were the top three students of the game, each one being just as vicious as the next. During their games, they'd snapped more limbs together than when Coach Calloway himself and his brother had once dominated over the sport, in his heyday at the school.  
  
"Hey! You guys know the rules!" Another voice came from behind them down the hallway. "You're now all in for Murderball period 5, so get the heck outta here before it gets worse!" Kurt Angle yelled, storming up to them with what could almost be a fire in his eyes. His 'hair' had now vanished from his skull, and this in turn brought laughter to the mouths of the Murderball Mob. Kurt continued his pace, strangely unfazed. This went unheeded by Triple H, who now began to address Angle.  
  
"Shut up chrome-dome, go drink some milk!"  
No response.  
"Hey cueball, you're needed on the pool table!" Lesnar jeered.  
No response. He still moved closer.  
A snarling noise came from Rhyno, followed by some almost indistinguisable comment on shiny bowling balls.  
No response.   
"Don't worry Kurt, Stephanie's in the hands of a real man now!"  
Then it happened.  
  
Triple H's world suddenly turned upside down before his very eyes. Kurt had finally reached him, and before he could even blink he was grappled around the waist and thrown, in a belly to belly suplex, straight into one of the many lockers down the hallway. His back slammed into the metal contraption with the typically loud and dull sounding thud of metal clanging against skin, a thud that was soon drowned out by his screams of agony.  
Rhyno was the next to fight, charging right at Kurt with the intent to tackle him head on. The school monitor saw it coming though, and in one swift movement had sidestepped the charging behemoth and thrown him right into the marble wall, shoulder first. There was a loud "SNAP!" as Rhyno's whole arm fell limply to his side, but the beastly teenager still managed to pull himself to his feet. He remained snarling at Angle, who wasn't even flinching from what he had just done. Helmsley's cries of pain were still echoing along the hallway, and Lesnar hadn't moved an inch. He cracked his knuckles and continued to stare at Kurt, before finally speaking.  
  
"Heh...glad you've finally grown some balls. Shame you picked the wrong targets, cause now I think the Coach'll want YOU on the grounds as well."  
  
Kurt suddenly began to stiffen as he saw just what Brock was talking about. Walking towards him was Coach Calloway, and he obviously wasn't happy. Upon the Coaches passing of him, Rhyno immediately snapped his shoulder back into position with another loud "SNAP!", this one producing a small growl of displeasure from the bulky student. Calloway stormed right up to Angle, clenching his fists for some more meat to practice on...but to the slight surprise of Lesnar, suddenly retracted. Instead, he drew out a long, meditating sigh, put his hand on Kurt's shoulder and walked off with him, muttering what appeared to be some discontented advice on "picking the correct type of food to chew on".  
  
Brock looked around him, towards his original targets, but only the walls of the school stared him back. In between all of the commotion, Benoit must have managed to drag Jericho away from the excitement and outside into the concrete clamour that was the playground, Brock assumed. He looked towards Rhyno, who in turn was looking at the still-moaning Helmsley, layed out and still desperately trying to ease the pain on his back. Although Rhyno himself was silent, his gaze all but shouted out "What the hell are you whining about?" Brock was about to tell Rhyno to pick Hunter up, when another sound pierced his ears.   
  
The distinct sound of flesh slapping against flesh, followed instantly in turn by the sound of a girl's startled cry, which was uniformally followed by the distant argument of two men. Leaving Rhyno to ponder over Triple H, Brock positioned himself against the wall, inching towards the snivelling of the girl and her approaching footsteps in such a manner so that she wouldn't even see who had grabbed her from behind. She wouldn't have time to run away, fight back, or even resist his charms, his superiority, his greatness. Brock smirked to himself as the argument between Benoit and Jericho faded away and the footsteps drew ever closer, and he readied himself to grab Trish, visualising already his success as she found out why they called him the Next Big Thing.  
  
And besides, it was time someone other than Hunter acted as if he had a banana in his pocket.  
  
  
END OF CHAPTER 4   
  
  
Wow, it's been on an off for the past two and a bit months to try and wrap that up. And let me tell you now, that ending was not what I'd originally planned! But at the same time, it might provide something else for me to work with, in addition to what I'd already planned. Anyhew, I'm not sure when the next chapter for this story will be, with me already a good way into my next college year (which by the way is infinitely better than the school system I was stuck with for 6 damn years!) so, don't get all that hopeful for a quick update. But I will keep trying with this, so don't give up either.  
In whatever case, I'll see you guys next when I'm finished on Chapter 5. 


End file.
